


A Handful of Nothing

by Rebness



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:39:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3914980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief look at Walt's thoughts as he makes his way to the hospital after Jesse is beaten up by Tuco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Handful of Nothing

'Yeah, room 106,' said Skinny Pete, his voice tinny at the other end of the line. 'I brought him in under his real name so just ask for Jesse Pinkman, yo.'

Walt looked up from the notepad on which he had hastily scribbled the garbled directions from Jesse's friend, momentarily shaken. 'Is -- that okay? Should you have used something else? For the cops, I mean?'

'Nah, cops ain't interested. He couldn't give a statement if he wanted to anyway.'

An unpleasant sensation found its grip on Walt, one he did not expect to feel for some punk like Jesse Pinkman, but one with which he was not unfamiliar. Fear. 'You said it wasn't that bad...' he began.

'I mean he's not gonna rat someone out!' said Skinny Pete, sounding offended.

'Fine. Just -- just wait for me there, okay? I'm coming now.'

'Will you be long? 'Cos I really gotta--'

Walt shut the phone with a decisive flip, jammed it into his pocket along with the note, and grabbed his car keys from the kitchen table. He was done talking.

  
***

  
'Look, it's not my fault, okay? I didn't say _take on a risk_. I sure as hell didn't say you had to go there...'  Walt sighed and drummed on the steering wheel as the traffic ground to a halt at the lights. 'I'm sorry that this happened, and we'll dial it back, okay? Clearly I entrusted you with too much responsibility and--'  The words died in his throat. Oh, that was callous. That wouldn't do as an argument. He scrubbed that one from his line of defense.

  
The lights flicked to green. He hit the accelerator again, but didn't push himself past the speed limit now. He had to formulate a proper defense. After all, Jesse may well be in his usual state of antagonism and pissant rage by the time Walt arrived at the hospital. It was important to tailor his response carefully. They couldn't lose all they had worked for because of one _incident_.  
  
***

  
He stopped off for gas at a station a handful of blocks away from the hospital. He figured that it wouldn't hurt to pick up something for Jesse to sweeten the lecture about _slingin' crystal and the big players and bein' a crusty old bastard yo_. He picked up a bag of chips, a couple of cans of Pibbs Xtra and decided on a card, too.

  
Unfortunately, they didn't stock any cards reading _Sorry You Were Beaten Up by The Cartel_ and he simply didn't feel comfortable getting a card with hearts and cute puppies for someone he wasn't sure if he even liked, let alone really cared about outside of a general sense of humanity and some vague sense of duty for the wretched awful student he had given up on.

  
He gazed at the rack of cards for another couple of minutes before deciding to abandon any pretense at sentimentality. The soda and chips would be enough. Pinkman probably couldn't read properly, anyway. He had better things to do than pick out cards for a junkie.  
  
***

  
Walt was slightly concerned to find himself pulling up at a florist's a mere block down. Flowers, it seemed, would be the right thing to do for some kid hospitalized for doing what he asked.

He corrected himself. For taking it upon himself to get beaten up.

Yes, that was it. Goddamn Pinkman.

  
***

He parked his car at the hospital lot, and reached for the things he had placed on the passenger seat. He decided to discard the chips: tacky, gas station crap. He was above that.

He considered, and left the soda too, grabbing the flowers before he exited the car.

His speech was perfect, prepared:

'... _Look, this is unfortunate. Things obviously escalated and we both know how you aren't quite able to grasp a situation fully and read the danger signs. Need I remind you of Krazy-8? No, I didn't think so._  
_'Obviously, I didn't know this was going to happen. I didn't expect you to go and -- well, what did you do? Run your foolish mouth off again? Did you tell this man about my son, as well? See, this is the trouble with you, Jesse. You never think. It was inevitable, really. And okay, I understand you thought you were doing the right thing but from now on-_ -'

  
There was a couple of patients standing outside, an elderly woman and a younger man on crutches, both in housecoats. They chatted away as they smoked, and Walt felt his stomach churn. A hospital was no place for a young man. It wasn't right. But then, this man might be a victim, like he was. Maybe he had cancer. He didn't look like a drug dealer (he smiled to himself at that) and besides, drug dealers were beaten up or shot or stabbed or had their bodies strung up over bridges across the border all the time. It was a risky game, and it wasn't like Jesse didn't know the risks, much less that Walt had dragged him into all this. He'd already been in the game and, well, these things happened.

  
The flowers were a silly idea. He gave them to the elderly woman, waving away her effusive thanks along with the acrid cigarette smoke, and entered the building, where he made his way to the front desk.

  
He fished in his pocket for the information from Jesse's friend, gave the requisite details and an alias for himself, and made his way up to the room. Speech prepared, divested of the foolish sentimental and false presents to show his concern, he pulled the curtain aside to see the man he had spoken with on the phone sitting a morose heap next to Jesse.

His eyes travelled over Jesse, completely insensate, his neck in a brace, his face a mess of bruises and swelling. The kid looked so small and helpless that Walt winced. All that bravado and big talk, and yet some idiot, some brute, had done this.

The unpleasant sensation was back again, as if gravity had somehow increased and was pulling him down to the floor with this new resetting of the rules. And then there was the fury, knotting itself in his stomach and unfurling up his spine. He gave noncommital replies to the scruffy friend sitting in the chair; he could barely speak, choked with protective rage.

'Who did this?' he said at last. 'Tell me everything.'


End file.
